“What will you build with?” asked the goat’s-foot.
“I like the dark, as it happens,” said the spider. “And I carry my own building-materials.”
Then she scrambled to the top of the goat’s-foot and looked round the landscape.
“You must have good eyes to see at night,” said the mouse. “Mine are not bad, but still I shouldn’t care to build a nest by this light.”
“As for eyes, I have eight,” said the spider. “And they see what they have to. I have also eight legs, I may as well tell you, and you needn’t be struck with amazement on that account. Taken all round, I am a woman who knows how to help herself in an emergency. There’s no coddling here and no nonsense.”
Now she pressed her abdomen against the branch of the goat’s-foot on which she was sitting and then took a header into the air.
“She’ll break her neck!” cried the mouse, terrified.
“I haven’t got a neck,” said the spider, from down below. “And, if I had, I wouldn’t break it. You go home to your dear husband and fondle him. When you come back in the morning, you shall see what a capable woman can do who doesn’t waste her time on love and emotions.”
The mouse went away, because she had other things to see to and also because the spider’s words hurt her. But the goat’s-foot and the fool’s-parsley were obliged to remain where they were and so were the long twigs on the stubs. And the spider behaved in such a curious manner that none of them closed an eye all night for looking at her.
The fact is, she did nothing but take headers into the air. She jumped first from one branch and then from another, then crawled up again and jumped once more. And, although she had no wings, as any one could see, she let herself down quite slowly to the ground or to another branch, never missed her jump and did not come to the least harm. To and fro, up and down she went, the whole night long.